Fog in Bishkek

Jaret Berman, Contributing Writer

The comedown of sundown
knees me in the chest
and I falter and fall to the floor

I can feel the decay
the creeping erosion of motion
gripping tightly every one of my words

If I felt like I could get away with it I would
write the word “Hope” on seventy two
fortune cookie sized pieces of paper

Bundle them all up in my arms
and walk to the river bank
unfurl at the first slight breeze

The strips of paper would float on the surface of the water
Would others simply watch? Would they dive in?
I would stay to find out

What goes up
must come down
I can wait the rest of my life